


The Best Feeling in the World

by xxpanda92xx



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Parentlock, Reunions, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-26
Updated: 2013-07-25
Packaged: 2017-12-21 09:14:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 7,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/898539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xxpanda92xx/pseuds/xxpanda92xx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock comes home at long last, but things aren't exactly what he expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Don't own anything related to Sherlock, though I wish I did. Un beta'd and un brit-picked.

Lestrade ran a hand through his hair, considerably more grey than it had been. "Are you sure about this?" he whispered to Sherlock. 

The tall man nodded. After three years, he was ready to come home. He had first given Lestrade the evidence needed to clear his name. Now, he was standing outside the door of 221B. Lestrade had given him a ride and was joining him to break the news to John. Many of the possible scenarios that he predicted for this involved John punching him, and he wanted someone there to pull John off him if need be. Also, Lestrade would be able to convince John he was real if John believed himself to be hallucinating.

Sherlock pulled the key from a chain around his neck. It was no small miracle he still had it. The necklace was an attempt to ensure it stayed with him as he ran all over the world. Over time, most of his traces of London had faded. His scarf was long gone. HIs coat was beat up and quite tattered. He had died his hair ginger in disguise. Thinner and slightly more tanned, he was hardly the man he had been when he left. The key was his last real tie to home, and he had made sure it was with him at all times.

It still fit. He smiled and entered quickly. He rushed up the stairs, Lestrade following closely. At the door to his old flat, he paused. He could hear John inside, and he was talking in nonsense, babying tones. This was new. When he hesitated, Lestrade reached past and knocked for him.

John answered the door quickly. "That was-" he started to say, but stopped when he saw Sherlock. His face broke into a wide grin. "Oh, it's you. Come on in. Welcome back." With that, he turned around and went back inside, allowing them entrance. "I'll make tea!" he called.

Sherlock followed, a bit nonplussed. This was not a situation for which he had planned. He had planned for being hit. He had planned for being kissed. He had planned for being ignored, for being shot at, for being tackled, for having to dodge things John threw at him. He had not planned for complete and utter calm. "Ah," he thought, "John must think I'm a hallucination."

"I'm real, John," he started to call, but he fell silent as he noticed his surroundings fully. 

221B had changed drastically. To start with, it had apparently been converted into a toy shop’s warehouse, because the floor and many other surfaces were buried under stuffed animals or other toys. The flat had also been made safe for children, covering all of the sharp angles with corner guards and putting child locks on the door handles as well. IT was safe to assume the cabinets and drawers were protected as well.

The largest change, however, was the small boy sitting in Sherlock's old chair and eyeing him thoughtfully. He was most likely between the ages of one and two. A very calm child, based on how he seemed undisturbed but rather curious about the presences of a stranger in his house. His hair was black, but his eyes were unmistakably John's. "Uncle Gweg!" the child cheered when the other man came into view.

Lestrade smiled and scooped up the boy. "Hey buddy!"

"John!" Sherlock called, not looking away from the oddity in Lestrade's arms. "Is this your nephew?" He knew it was not, but he had to ask. Anything was better than his partner in not-crime being saddled down with a child.

"You know he's not," John answered calmly, coming into the room and handing him a cup of tea. "Didn't Greg tell you?"

"There was no way to shut him up long enough, and, to be honest, I didn't even think about it." He set down the boy to take the tea John offered.

"Da, who's tat?" the boy asked, staring at Sherlock. 

"Hamish," said John in the tone Sherlock had heard through the door, "this is Sherlock Holmes. He's the man I tell you all the stories about. He's come home now."

"Oh, otay," Hamish replied.

"Why don't you go play with Uncle Greg downstairs till Mrs. H gets back?"

"Otay," said Hamish, a toy and grabbing his "uncle's" finger to toddle off downstairs.

John sat down in his chair and gestured for Sherlock to sit across from him. "Took you long enough to come back," he commented as he drank his tea. 

Sherlock sat down, sipping the tea that was prepared exactly to his liking, even after all these years. "You sound like you've always known I'd be back."

John shrugged. "At first, for about a year or so, I believed our little disappearing act. But somehow, it just didn't...fit. You're not the kind to kill yourself. Too damned full of yourself for that. And I know that Molly would do anything for you, and works in Bart's morgue, so it's not that big a leap to assume she helped you out. So I went and got the story out of her, which took quite a bit of persuasion, believe me. Plus, it was a bit odd that Mycroft insisted on paying rent for both our rooms, even after I moved out, and insisted that I should leave it as much like normal as possible. If it was someone else, it could have been sentiment, but I learned a while ago that the Holmes brothers don't do that."

"Very good. I see I taught you well. But I've checked up on you multiple times, both in person, though you didn't see me, and through other sources, and they all said you have been quite depressed in my absence. If you figured it out two years ago, why continue being depressed?" 

John shrugged again. "You needed me upset for a reason, even if I didn't know what it was. You may be overdramatic, but I don't think even you would throw yourself off a building to get out of sharing a flat with me. You needed me to think you were dead, so I did my best to keep that up."

" **Very** good," said Sherlock, genuinely surprised. "You should go into acting. You could win a BAFTA. But, to correct you on one small point- I am **not** overdramatic."

John snorted. "Whatever you say, Cheekbones." Ignoring Sherlock's glare, continued. "So, where did you go? Why couldn't you tell me? Why did you leave?" He said the last sentence in a soft voice filled with so much emotion that Sherlock could tell there was a part of John that had remained grieving, lonely, and upset, even if he knew rationally that Sherlock was alive. 

"I had to. Moriarty was going to kill you, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson if I didn't jump. I was more clever than him though, and I figured out that part of his plan. I set it up with Molly to fake my death. I needed to make you all believe I was dead so you could live, you especially. Then I traveled the world, taking down Moriarty's network, everything he left behind. And now I'm home." He said it simply, not feeling up to relaying the entire tale just yet. 

John looked at him thoughtfully. It bothered Sherlock that he could no longer read his only friend. It wasn't due to a loss in his abilities; Lestrade had been as simple to deduce as ever. But John was impossible to deduce for some reason. After a while, John spoke again. "Well, you'll have to move upstairs if you're coming back to stay. Hamish is too little for those stairs right now. And we'll have to set up some rules, like no experiments left within his reach unless you're both physically and mentally present to guard them."

"Yes, now that I've told you my story, I believe you owe me one. Unless Bart's has gotten some massive renovations in innovative technology while I've been way, I'm given to understand babies don't create themselves."

John smiled. "She came up to me at a coffee shop one day. She recognized me from my blog. She was an avid fan, and she didn't believe you were a fraud. She wanted me to tell my story, to talk about what you were really like. It was a minor miracle really, a date that actually _wanted_ to talk about you. We started going steady, but got married faster than planned because of little Hamish. Don't regret it though. That's her there," he said, gesturing to a photo on the opposite corner of the mantle from the skull. Sherlock was surprised to see it still sitting there.

He took a close look at the picture. The woman was pretty. She had long, dark hair and bright blue eyes. _A great deal like myself_ , he noted mentally. _John's therapist must have had a field day with that one._

"Where is she now?" he asked, sitting back down. "I don't see evidence of anyone living here besides you and your son."

John's face dropped and his posture stiffened. "There was an explosion. A gas line blew. A lot of the flats in our block were destroyed. I had taken Hamish with me to do the shopping so Mary could have a bit of a rest. That was a year ago. Hamish was only six months old. I doubt he'll even remember her. I made Mycroft look into it, but he swore it was a legitimate accident." The happiness had left John now. He looked drained and heartbroken. "It was horrible. Even though by then I knew you were alive, it still hurt that you had left me alone. And then I lost my other best friend and love. If it hadn't been for Hamish and the hope you'd be back, I probably would have just shut down. Maybe even followed you off of Bart's. But Hamish needed me, more than ever. Plus, I couldn't do that to Mrs. Hudson. She thinks of us as her own sons, and she had already lost you. So we moved back here. Mycroft helped me get back on my feet, and so I pressed on. Molly and Mrs. Hudson have been helping babysit. Mycroft seems bound and determined to make up for his blunder with Moriarty through financial gifts, even after all this time, and the fact that you left me everything helped too, though I tried to touch that as little as possible. And so I worked and waited and did my best to be a single dad. Hardly as glamorous as chasing down criminals," he finished with a grin. 

Sherlock smiled back. "So who were you expecting when I knocked?"

"Mrs. Hudson. She stepped out to get milk. She's probably back by now. Wait here while I get her, ok? I'll tell her first. No point in giving her a heart attack."

Sherlock rose and wandered aimlessly through the flat when John left, his mind racing. Hamish was not a change he had been expecting. Well, it wasn't Hamish that was unexpected as much as it was John being a single parent. How could John manage being a dad, working, and running around on cases? John was ordinary. He needed time to eat and sleep. Sherlock didn't like the thought of not having his friend with him anymore. He had done that for the past three years, and he was loath to do it again. 

His musings were cut short as the flat door was thrown open. Mrs. Hudson burst in, looking more fragile than he remembered. Her strong slap to the cheek, however, told him that was not the case. "I can't believe it!" she sobbed. He hugged her awkwardly. "You should have written! We could have kept your secret." She stepped away, sniffing. "If you ever do something like that again, I'm renting your room to that man from the Yard you're always so mean to."

"Lestrade"

"No, the other one. I think you called him Andy."

Sherlock's jaw dropped. "Anderson?" he asked incredulously.

She nodded. "That's the one. Now, you look awful. You go lie on the couch, and I'll fetch the boys and some soup. Just this once though. I'm not your housekeeper."

Before Sherlock could reply, she had hurried from the room. Grumbling to himself, he removed half a dozen toys from the couch and then sprawled across it. He hated to admit it, but it felt very good to lie down on the couch. The cushions were more worn than they had been the last time he flopped on them, but it still smelled like home. He gave a deep sigh of contentment. Yes, he was home.


	2. Chapter 2

The rest of the day involved people insisting on taking care of Sherlock. He tried to grumble and complain, but it felt good to have the three people he "died" for in the same room and focused on him. And Hamish. Apparently, John had always told his son that Sherlock would be back someday, because the boy seemed content to let Sherlock into his life. 'Much like his father,' Sherlock mused. The child also shared John's sense of calm and simply sat in a chair, staring at Sherlock with those wide eyes. It was a bit unnerving at first, but he learned just to ignore it. 

Eventually, everyone left, and when Hamish had fallen asleep, John took him into Sherlock's old room. When he came back, he told Sherlock, "I'm afraid your room isn't ready for you. Sorry, wasn't sure when to expect you back, if at all. But if you don't mind sleeping out here tonight, I'll get your room all fixed up tomorrow."

"Don't bother. I'll take care of it," Sherlock said, standing long enough to throw off his coat. 

"Where's your scarf?" John asked as he got some blankets for Sherlock and laid them on his friend. 

Sherlock muttered, "Lost it," as he pulled the blankets further up.

"Too bad. Well, good night, Sherlock. See you tomorrow?"

Sherlock felt a twinge of guilt at the question. He reached out and squeezed John's arm briefly to reassure him that he was real and here to stay. "Tomorrow."

The next day, when Sherlock woke up, he felt better than ever. Mostly. He felt disgustingly filthy, but other than that, he felt wonderful. Sleep had done him well, though he would never admit as much to John, who he now noticed was oddly absent. He decided to shower and clean up first, however, before hunting down his flat mate.

When he walked up to his new room in search of some clean clothes, a pleasant surprise greeted him. Hanging on the door was his coat, cleaned and mended. Wrapped around its hanger was a scarf, almost exactly the same as his old one. Pinned to it was a note. _Here, you needed this. It doesn't look right to see you without it. Got your coat fixed too. Welcome home. -John_

He smiled and walked into his room. To his surprise, it was perfectly clean. With a sniff, he caught the odors of the cleaning chemicals John or Mrs. Hudson had used (probably her, John didn't use as many products when he cleaned; so much for not being their housekeeper). The smell was fresh enough that it couldn’t have been more than a few hours old. He stepped around all the boxes on the floor to dig through his wardrobe and find something that would fit at least little bit.

After his shower, he dressed in the clothes that were now a bit baggy on his lanky frame. His next order of business was a phone call. "Why, hello, brother dearest," he said smoothly when Mycroft answered.

His brother sighed. "You only use that tone when you want something. Hasn't changed since we were children. What is it this time? A new flat? Surely John welcomed you home with open arms?"

"He already knew I was coming back. No, what I need is income for the good doctor and myself."

Mycroft listened as his brother explained. "I see. If he still wishes to accompany you, it will be a problem."

"If?"

"Well, he is a father now, Sherlock. Near death experiences mean a bit more." Sherlock huffed into the phone. "But I will see that you are paid, with or without his help. And I'm sure his pay can be raised if he wants to continue on at the surgery. Then he will not need to work so many hours."

"Thank you, Mycroft. That is all." He ended the call before Mycroft could irritate him further. 

He was surprised to see the time on his phone read 4:30 in the afternoon. He must have been more tired than he thought. He had nothing to do yet, so he sat and waited for John to appear, then grew bored after two and a half minutes and decided to update his blog from John's laptop. He was stymied, however, by the password protection. Frustratingly, he could not decipher it. He finally conceded defeat when absolutely nothing worked.

"Try Hamish Sherlock Watson, no spaces, first letters capitalized," John suggested, coming up behind him. 

"Thank you. I tried both Hamish and Hamish Watson, but I never thought to put my name in there. Why ever did you?"

"It's not your name. It's his," John answered simply. "Tea?"

"Yes." Sherlock stared at John as he moved around the kitchen, trying to figure him out. There was something very different about him now. "By the way, where is Hamish?"

"Downstairs with Mrs. Hudson. I think she likes having him around. The grandson she never had, you know? I figured we could use some time to talk."

"Ah, yes, rules," Sherlock sneered.

John laughed. "That's part of it, yeah. No experiments within his reach. No shooting walls. No yelling at him or telling him to shut up. I'm his parent, so that's my job. When you story body parts in the fridge, don't put them near any food, and please put them in some kind of container so it's more sanitary and the rest of us can't see them. If you're going to play your violin late at night, do it in your room, or you're taking care of him when he wakes up and won't stop crying. I think that's everything. We'll add more if needed."

Sherlock resisted the urge to scowl. He wanted to reject them all. "Fine," he snapped peevishly.

"Thank you," said John, smiling. "I know you hate every single one of those rules and will probably delete them from your hard drive as soon as you can. I'll tape a list to the fridge that you are not allowed to take down. Now, when are you going back to work?"

"As soon as someone gives me a case," Sherlock answered. "I'm bored already. I need something to do. It will probably be a while before someone gives me work, but I intend to start as soon as possible."

"Can I still come along? I mean, I know you've worked alone these past few years, but if you still want an assistant, I'd be glad to help."

Sherlock grinned, but then remembered his conversation with Mycroft. "Do you still want to? You have a son now. You probably shouldn't go running after danger like you used to."

John frowned and was quiet for a long while. Sherlock could practically hear him thinking. To his happiness and surprise, John finally answered, "Yes. I may try to sit out the more dangerous ones, but absolutely. Now that you're back, my work at the clinic won't be enough and I'll get bored. And I'll worry about you all the time, so it will be less stressful for me to just run all over London with you. Not sure what to do about my job though...."

"Quit. I'll make sure I'm paid from now on if it means you can come."

John looked at him oddly. "That's awfully charitable of you."

"Well, I have to adapt, don't I?" Sherlock huffed. "I really am lost without my blogger, John. Three years is a long time. I hate it, but I will make what changes I can to ensure able to come with me, even following your idiotic rules and accepting payment for my work."

John gave him a huge smile and patted his shoulder. Sherlock's stomach felt very funny, and he wasn't sure why. "Thanks. That means a lot. I missed you too, you know. We'll figure it out. It'll work somehow."

It took some time, but John was right. They did figure out how to make everything work. After John had kicked him out a couple times and he was forced to sleep on Lestrade's couch, Sherlock grudgingly learned to follow the rules. He spent a lot of time in his room because Hamish couldn't follow him. He liked Hamish as much as he could like any little kid- he had never been particularly fond of children- but it was still a trial to have him around. Hamish was learning to talk, but it was mostly just babbling. He did love to ask questions, especially, "Why?" Sherlock had been very excited about this- maybe the child was more intelligent than he seemed- until he realized that little kids tend to get stuck on repeat and he had heard the same question fifty-eight times in a row. John had just laughed and taken Hamish for a walk.

They managed to work out a schedule of sorts for the cases. Sherlock would give the case a danger level as soon as he had enough data. John would sit it out if the number was too high, but would require Sherlock to check in with him frequently. More often than not, he ignored his previous decision and chased after Sherlock, determined to protect his friend. Sherlock refused to admit how much this pleased him.

There was another change he had not been expecting. John had developed the need to have physical contact with Sherlock. It wasn't constant or invasive. Usually, it was just a small touch- a hand on the back for a second, brushing fingers as he passed Sherlock something. When pressed, he had finally snapped at Sherlock and admitted it was because he needed confirmation his grief hadn't pushed him to having hallucinations, which explained why it seemed to take place only in the privacy of the flat, where there was no one to react to Sherlock and reassure John. John had left for a walk, leaving Sherlock to take care of Hamish and try to figure out why the simple touches gave him a feeling that he hadn't experienced before. It made him feel warm and, as far as he could tell, it was the best feeling in the world.


	3. Chapter 3

Six months later, it was Hamish's second birthday. Sherlock had found about it late, and so he dropped what he was working on and ran out to find the boy a present. John had been rather upset about Hamish playing with the eyeballs he had found on the table, but he softened when Sherlock explained why he had run off in a hurry. It was a car that had buttons that made lots of loud noise. John grumbled, but Hamish loved it.

An hour later, Sherlock groaned and rubbed his temples. He and John were eating some of the Cake Mrs. Hudson had made, and Hamish was still playing with his noisy truck. John shook his head. "You found the perfect gift, didn't you? You found a toy shop and took everything you knew about him and deduced what he would like the most, right?"

Sherlock sighed. "Yes, I did. How was I supposed to know he'd play with it nonstop?"

John grinned wryly and shook his head. "You don't know much about little kids, do you?"

"Statistically speaking, two-year-old's are not particularly common serial killers," Sherlock snapped.

John gave him a funny look. "You're right. They're not. So why did you store so much data on your hard drive about Hamish that you could find the perfect present?"

Sherlock stood and stalked off to his room. The next day, John found a note in his mug. _I apologize for leaving last night. I was not comfortable with the question you asked. However, on the condition that we will never speak of it again, I will answer, as I know you will never let it drop otherwise. I have decided I would like to experiment. Calm down, I'm not going to let anything happen to Hamish. I merely want to try my hand at being a father, and your son is an excellent sample to experiment on. I would not dream of taking your job away from you- Hamish should consider himself lucky to have you for a father. You are firm but not cruel and always loving. I, myself, will never be a father. Women hold no interest for me, and I doubt I will ever meet one who I could stand to be around long enough to produce offspring. As such, I will be trying to help more with Hamish and attempting to be a second father to him, unless you find this idea particularly repellant. That is why I have yet to delete information regarding him. I hope this answers your question._

When Sherlock came home, John said nothing, for which Sherlock was grateful. He was not sure if John had read the note at first, but he got his answer when John handed him a diaper and simply said, "Your turn." The smile on his lips gave Sherlock that funny feeling again though, so he didn't complain.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock was awoken by loud, happy screeching. He groaned. The night before held a particularly enjoyable case that had ended in a merry chase across London. Today, however, was Hamish's third birthday, and he did not sound like he care one whit about how much sleep his dad and whatever-Sherlock-was-to-him needed. Grumbling, he wandered downstairs to find the little boy covered in chocolate cake and John rubbing his eyes blearily. "Cake for breakfast, John? What on earth were you thinking?"

John groaned. "He escaped! He woke up in the middle of the night from a bad dream or something, so I just put him in bed with me. I woke up to an open door and a hyper, messy, little boy. Mrs. Hudson must have come and given us his cake while we were still asleep and he found it."

Despite his exhaustion, Sherlock laughed. John's glare only heightened his amusement. "Well, at least he'll have a good day."

John laughed a little. "Coffee, mate?"

Sherlock nodded. Mrs. Hudson came into the room. "Happy-" The phrase died on her lips as she took in the situation at 221B. "Now Sherlock!" she exclaimed. He raised his eyebrows. How was this his fault? "First you run John ragged all night, then you let little Hamish eat all his birthday cake. He's going to be sick now, mark my words."

"What makes you think this is my fault?" he asked indignantly.

"Now, don't try to pin this on John. He's always been the responsible one out of the two of you. Sometimes you'd think he was raising two children the way you carry on."

Sherlock grinned. He hated to admit it, but she had a point. "Don't worry, I'll take care of it since it was my fault. We'll go play at the park later today to run off some energy."

Satisfied, Mrs. Hudson went back to her flat. John sat down with the mugs of coffee. "So I'm going to the park today?"

Sherlock took a drink and shrugged. "If you want. I was planning on taking him, but you're welcome to come along if you want."

"You never take him anywhere," John said, rising to de-cake his son and hopefully preserve the furniture.

"It's not my fault you think he's too young for a crime scene."

"He's three!" snapped John. He paused and took a breath. "Sorry, I am so sorry. Just over tired."

"Then go back to bed. I'll take Hamish to the park. Don't worry, we'll be fine."

John shook his head. "No, it's his birthday, and I'm his father. I should be there for him today."

Sherlock shrugged. "It's your choice."

In the end, John chose to come along. Hamish ran around on the grass, giggling. John leaned back against the bench they were watching from, holding a second cup of coffee in his hands. The two didn't say much, just watched Hamish and stayed lost in their thoughts. Finally, Sherlock couldn't stand sitting still, and so he got up and went to play with the little boy. He ran around, chasing him but always letting Hamish stay one step ahead. Finally, Hamish's chubby legs gave out beneath him. After catching and tickling the boy some, Sherlock carried him back to where John was sitting. John had that funny smile again, and Sherlock hoped John would think his flushed cheeks were a result of his running around with Hamish.

Later, after Hamish had been tucked safely in his crib where he couldn't escape, Sherlock played his violin while John sat and listened. Between pieces, John began to fidget, so Sherlock rolled his eyes and put the bow down. "What do you want to ask me?"

"I was just curious about earlier, when you were playing with Hamish in the park. I've never seen that side of you. You're always so dignified and cool, never just...free."

"I'm sure by now Mycroft has told you about my pirating days. What I'm sure he failed to mention was that he was the one that indulged my fantasy the most. He read me a chapter of Treasure Island every night as soon as I was old enough, as well as any other pirate stories he came across. However, I think the most important thing he ever did for me was that every day after school, he would come home and take me to the park and play with me. Who knows how many times he had to walk the plank, how many times he was forced into a life of servitude, cleaning the ship of the fierce pirate Captain S. Holmes. I never forgave him for growing up and becoming too busy and important to walk the plank. I wanted Hamish to have that."

John stared at him. "Why have I never heard this before?"

"You never asked." Sherlock's fingers itched for his violin, a shield to hide behind after he had put far more of himself out there and intended, making himself vulnerable, but something in John's face gave him pause.

John smiled. "Tell me more. You're my best friend, but I never thought to ask about stuff like this. Tell me more."

They stayed up far too late again, talking about Sherlock's past. It was hard at first, letting someone in like that, but the kind and caring acceptance that John gave, plus his genuine interest, made the taller man believe his previous assumptions had been wrong. This, this bond of friendship with John and all the feelings that came with it, was the best feeling in the world.


	5. Chapter 5

A year came and passed quickly. Sherlock was getting to be more and more involved with Hamish, doing more for him so that John had less to worry about. Mycroft had needed a dental appointment for a broken tooth after he had joked about Sherlock letting himself be domesticated. He cared greatly for Hamish, but refused to admit it. It had stopped being an experiment long ago. 

The night of Hamish's fourth birthday, Sherlock gave him one last present to open later on in the night. It was a coloring book with scientific pictures to color, such as the parts of the cell. John started to complain, but Sherlock cut him off. "There is nothing wrong with educating your son at a young age."

"He's four, Sherlock. He's not going to remember this stuff. We're just now mastering the alphabet in order and recognizing all the letters. He's not ready for the more advanced sciences yet," John explained patiently.

"Nonsense. Come here, Hamish," Sherlock called gently, kneeling down by the table near the couch. Hamish came and sat next to him. "This book is going to help you to be a very intelligent young man someday, like me and your father, on occasion. Now, you color it and I'll tell you which part it is."

"Otay." Hamish pulled out a bright pink crayon, flipped to a page with the diagram of a brain on it, and started coloring. 

"That's the frontal lobe. It helps you think. Say frontal lobe," Sherlock said gently.

"Front lobe," said Hamish in a singsong tone.

Sherlock looked up at John with the intent to gloat. What he saw, however, surprised him enough that he forgot to put the "I told you so" expression on. John was smiling a new smile, one that Sherlock was still learning as he learned to catalog and read John since his return. John had changed during Sherlock absence, and so he had had to rearrange John's part of the Mind Palace to account for it. The smile that John wore now was so new he had yet to define it. It was rare and mostly came out when John wasn't aware Sherlock was observing him (which was more frequent that Sherlock cared to admit), and it brought out that funny, happy feeling stronger than anything else.

"Fine then, well done," said John, breaking Sherlock's train of thought and bringing him back to the present. Sherlock colored with Hamish until the boy got bored and went to watch his new movie from Uncle Greg. After John had the DVD playing and Hamish was giggling happily at Shaun the Sheep, he sat down next to Sherlock on the sofa. "So what's on the schedule for tomorrow?"

"Unless Lestrade calls with a case, nothing. All the cases on the website are boring and don't need my brain power." Sherlock sighed and leaned his head on John's shoulder. The little touches had become more natural over time, until both men felt odd if there wasn't the occasional touch from the other. It also brought Sherlock that weird, warm feeling he suspected was something along the lines of sentiment, and he enjoyed it so much he indulged in it whenever he could. 

"So you should be free for dinner tomorrow night?" John asked, leaning his head down to the side so it touched Sherlock's.

"Sounds fine. I suppose I should eat since I'm not on a case, or you'll never leave me alone. Angelo's?" Why did John feel tense next to him?

"Sure, but...." John paused, looking hesitant. Sherlock raised an eyebrow and waited; John didn't respond well to being pushed anymore. "Can we make it a date?" John finally asked.

Oh. That's what those smiles meant. The last bits of the puzzle snapped into place. "Um...well, I've always been married to my work, but...." Sherlock hesitated, not wanting to give away his secret but seeing no way around it. "I've always been married to my work, so I've never been on a date, so I don't really know what to do," he said in a rush. He stared at the TV, refusing to meet John's eye.

John laughed. "You make sure you have nothing going on after 6:30 tomorrow night. Get ready and be here by 7:00. You and I will go to dinner. Just us, Hamish will have a babysitter. And then, after dinner, we can find something else to do. Maybe go see a movie or go for a walk. And then we'll go home and everything can go back to normal if you'd like. Or not. Whatever you want. I'll leave that up to you."

"Doesn't a date usually end in sex?" Sherlock asked uncertainly, feeling very out of his element.

John smiled kindly. "Only if both persons want to. We'll cross that bridge when we come to it. Until then, don't worry."

The next day, Sherlock was buzzing as he got ready. He cursed his nervousness. Was this how normal people felt before their first date? It was disgusting. He made sure he looked nice, even put a little product in his hair. He wore his purple shirt, which he liked to think looked good on him. He hoped John would like him in it. At 7:00, he went downstairs, nervously excited.

John was waiting for him. He looked up and smiled when Sherlock walked in. "You look nice."

Sherlock smiled. "Thank you. Shall we go?"

They went to Angelo's, and Sherlock was pleasantly surprised to discover that a date with John Watson was not that different from just having dinner with John Watson. They still talked mostly about cases and their coworkers, so to speak, at the Yard and Hamish and made jokes at the expense of Mycroft and Anderson. The only real differences were the candle, which burned brightly and was never protested, and the unabashed adoration in John's face. He was no longer guarding his emotions, ceasing to hide how he felt, and Sherlock had never felt so special, not since Mycroft had become too important for him.

They went to the cinema after dinner. Sherlock was bored with the film's predictable plot, but John was enjoying himself, so Sherlock kept quiet. Partway through, John reached over in a manner that attempted but failed entirely at being casual and threaded his fingers with Sherlock's. Contrary to his previous assumptions, Sherlock was certain that this was the best feeling in the world. 

After the movie, they walked back to 221B, still hand in hand. They said very little, just walked through London and enjoyed each other's presence. At the front door, Sherlock paused. John looked at him, but nothing in his face suggested anything other than gentle and patient affection. "Is it not customary for a date to end in a kiss at the front door?"

John's smile grew as he stepped closer. "If you'd like."

Sherlock leaned down a little, pressed his lips to John’s, and realized he had been wrong before. **This** was definitely the best feeling in the world.


	6. Chapter 6

For his fifth birthday, Hamish got to watch his dad and his dad's boyfriend struggle with putting together the children's bed Sherlock had bought him. They were going to have a party later, and Hamish was very excited. Mrs. H had promised to bake him his favorite cake, and Uncle Greg and Uncle Myc were going to come over to play games with him. Sherlock had grumbled about Mycroft's presence in their lives the past few years, especially as it had increased in the last few months. John, however, had insisted after they had named the elder Holmes Hamish's godfather. They had offered Lestrade the role first, but he insisted it wouldn't be a good idea to make him responsible for the boy if they died because his job was just as dangerous.

When the bed was completed, John and Sherlock stood back and watched Hamish bounce happily on his new bed. He had been allowed to choose both the bed and the sheets that went on it, so he already loved it. They smiled as he continued to bounce and giggle in delight.

"You know, John," Sherlock said cautiously, "You should ask Hamish to be sure, but I bet he's old enough to want his own room. Then he would have much more room for all his toys. And since there are no other rooms here, you can move back into your old room with me. But there's only one bed, so we'll have to share."

John looked at him affectionately. "I'll ask him tonight."

The next day, after their one-year anniversary dinner, John joined Sherlock in his bed. They put a baby monitor in Hamish's room so he could reach them if needed. There was no sex that night- Sherlock was uncomfortable and nervous at the thought of too much physicality because it was something he had never done and he hated being less than perfect at anything. John always told him he was worrying needlessly and that he was being silly, but he never tried to push Sherlock further than he wanted to go. Lying in bed next to John was very pleasant, but Sherlock decided that waking up with John curled up against him was the best feeling in the world.


	7. Chapter 7

Hamish's sixth birthday was almost over, and Sherlock hadn't given him his present yet, choosing instead to be very secretive and telling Hamish he would have to wait till bedtime. He was now sitting down with the boy and coloring with him. It had become a nightly tradition since that first night. Sherlock invested in as many educational coloring books as he could get his hands on, even taking an incredibly boring case for a company that produced them so as to ensure easy access to as many as he wanted. John had called this manipulation and highly unethical, but he was smiling as he said it, so Sherlock deduced he wasn't really mad about it. Some of the concepts were out of Hamish's young mind before he had finished repeating the words and others stayed, but both man and child enjoyed the ritual more than words could express.

On this night, Sherlock whispered to Hamish as they colored a diagram of the human heart. "I have a question for you, but you have to keep it a secret, ok? We can't tell your dad."

"What is it? I promise I won't tell."

"Would you like me to be your other dad, Hamish? It wouldn't be very different than we are now. You can still call me Shock until you're able to say Sherlock right, or whatever else you want. It just means that you and your dad's last names would change if you wanted, and that your dad and I would stay together until we died, assuming there are no problems with the arrangement."

Out of all the responses he had calculated and planned for, hysterical laughter was not one of them. John looked over from where he was washing dishes and smiled affectionately. "What's so funny?" Sherlock hissed, making Hamish laugh harder. 

When the boy finally calmed down, he answered, "Can't tell. It's a secret. But you can be my dad. I'd like that."

Sherlock smiled and they went back to coloring. That night, when he and John were tucking Hamish in, he pulled a book out from under the bed. "This is a very special book I'd like to read to you," Sherlock told Hamish. "It was my favorite book when I was your age. Uncle Myc used to read it to me every night. It's your present. May I read it to you?"

"What's it about?" Hamish asked, sounding excited.

"Pirates. It has many pirate stories about gold and buried treasure and adventures."

"Read it! Read it!"

Sherlock smiled and began reading until Hamish fell asleep. As soon as they were away from Hamish's room, John pulled him into a heated kiss that left him a little weak at the knees. "I'm beginning to understand why women always find men who are good with kids more attractive. It was hard to keep my hands to myself in there." He kissed him again.

Sherlock made a decision. He pulled away from John and took a breath. "I was going to ask you this tomorrow, but, John," he said, sinking to one knee, "your ring is upstairs, but will you marry me?"

John laughed. Sherlock was beginning to wonder why the topic of marriage was so amusing to the Watsons. "I was going to propose tomorrow night," John explained. "I talked to Hamish and he liked the idea, so I was going to ask you tomorrow after dinner at Angelo's."

Sherlock smiled. "That must have been why he laughed so hard when I asked him if I could be his other dad." He stood and kissed John. "Now, let's have sex."

"What, just like that?"

"I decided a while ago that I wanted to have sex with you, so I started researching it. I found several studies that showed sexual intercourse strengthens the bond between partners significantly. This makes break ups even more painful and messy. I wanted to wait until I was positive I wasn't going to lose you before we had sex. Breaking up with you would have been painful enough without any extra ties."

John kissed him soundly. "I'm never leaving you, Sherlock Holmes, so stop worrying."

The sex was a little awkward, as Sherlock learned what to do. It did not last as long as he wanted, and he was sore the next day, but Sherlock thought it was the best feeling in the world, especially when he and John exchanged rings over their anniversary dinner.


	8. Chapter 8

They held the wedding ceremony on their anniversary the next year, so Hamish's birthday was a much smaller affair than usual, but he still got presents and his favorite cake, so he was ok with it. It was a small ceremony, with only close friends in attendance. And Mycroft, much to Sherlock's annoyance. "You might appreciate my coming when I give you my present." He pulled a document out of the briefcase he carried. "With John and Hamish's permission, which they have already granted, sigh this document and you will be legally counted as Hamish's father and have just as much right to him as John himself does. 

Sherlock scribbled his name as fast as his fingers would allow. "Congratulations, little brother. You are now a husband and a father. I will make sure this is processed with the utmost haste. Now, how about a photo of the Watson-Holmes family to capture the event?"

That night, Mycroft's assistant (now Jasmine instead of Anthea- she and John had developed a repertoire of sorts after his being kidnapped so many times) dropped off a framed printout of the picture. "I was wrong again," Sherlock murmured to himself as he looked at it.

"About what, love?" John asked, hugging him from behind.

"I keep having to correct myself. I keep thinking I've found the best feeling in the world, but then it changes. But now I know what it is." He turned to look John in the eye. "It's the love I've found in our family, both how I feel about you and Hamish, and how you both make me feel. Nothing, not even the most mind-blowing sex, can beat this. It truly is the best feeling in the world."


End file.
